


Every contact leaves trace

by redhoodtea



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Booklover?, Bottom Arthur Morgan, F/F, Happy Ending, He came out but nothing tragic or dramatic, John with Lyndon?, M/M, Modern AU, Not me but somebody should, Super Prude John Marston, Top John Marston, Virgin John Marston, if you squint real hard, morston, seriously?, somebody should write Morston in SF AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21770005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoodtea/pseuds/redhoodtea
Summary: John Marston loved crime shows when he was a boy. 'Every contact leaves trace' - He learned this old but gold truth of life from the show. This golden rule slowly manifests itself throughout his life, by meeting someone he had long forgotten at somewhere he had never thought of. Oh, and you would find out how John ditched Lyndon "goodman" Monroe.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts & John Marston, John Marston/Arthur Morgan, Sadie Adler/Abigail Roberts
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Every contact leaves trace

Every contact leaves a trace. Old but gold, as it tells the truth of life as much as of forensic science. John Marston was no forensic expert, scientist, not even a CSI geek. He just watched the crime shows a lot, back in the early 2000s. Teenage boy John Marston loved the crime shows - back then, they were the hit. Before YouTube and Netflix, there were NBC, Fox, etc. 90s kids might argue that the best TV channel was & is HBO, but for the Marstons, HBO was never an option. Before ‘It’s Not Porn, It’s HBO’, the channel already gained reputations for producing shows containing at least 2 times more violence and sex than any other shows from their competitors. It was highly reasonable that Mr. Marston and Mrs. Marston decided to not subscribe to that channel. You don’t have to be a rigorist to say that sex and violence were no good for a teenager. Surprisingly, though, they let him watch 'regular' crime shows such as CSI(and its various spinoffs), NCIS, Law & Order, etc - in the hope that Young John would learn how crimes ruin victims’ life, disturb society, and all unlawful acts would be found and be punished, in the end.

Well but you know, the media, especially entertainments - Public welfare and social awareness are the last things they would care unless vigilant civil rights group protest in front of their buildings, organize boycotts, and finally, file class actions. Do you remember all the girl cops and agents’ cleavages in the shows? Tight asses and small waists they sporting? Remember all the hookers and strip dancers and their barely clad bodies and long, feathery lashes? Recall the young rape victims bursting into tears right after their sexual assert scenes? Those bodies of dead girls the cameras literally showed every inch in a voyeuristic manner? Not to mention the fractured bones and blue and black faces with the savory air of Fight Club. To teenage boys, the shows were soft R-18 compensating their forfeited porns. John Marston was a huge fan of crime shows, but the reason why he liked was quite opposite from his parents’ intentions. Well, but it wasn’t that mass media fucked up this little boy’s mind and distorted his opinion on women’s rights and made him internally support female sexualization. His pupil dilated when the bulky young rookie cop got shot and paramedic ripped off his shirt to treat gunshot wounds. He loved lieutenant Constantine, his dirty blonde hair and blue eyes beaming under the bright sunlight of Miami. His low, husky voice was lingering - and, well. It was not surprising that one night, lieutenant Constantine who was about to take a shower, visited his wet dream instead of the shower room of Miami police station. It was 21C(had been only a few years, but technically it was), and it was very easy to find out that he was gay, aka, homosexual. Unfortunately, though his parents were no rigorists, asceticists, nor Victorians - they were Texan guided by faith and blessed by GOD, oh Lord bless the Marstons.

That was the reason why John Marston fled to Chicago when he turned 18. Technically, it wasn’t a dramatic flight or a great escape. He just went to the University of Illinois at Chicago. Yeah, Not the University of Chicago, totally different, but what mattered to John was that it was far, far away from his home. John was a swimmer(Not a rodeo rider nor a football player. What did you expect?) and they offered him a scholarship. He was a swimmer, a handsome boy with jet black hair and dark eyes with a hint of blue. Whenever he went to the parties, girls were the ones broke ices. They hovered around him and were ready to accept him buying them drinks, not knowing that the boy got no intention. He just talked with them. He was not a smooth talker but was a good man, and you know how much girls and women need someone who can communicate with them, who respects them enough to not steal a glance at their bosoms or asses. John was not a man of wit, he was half-bright (cannot say he is bright, that would be a lie, it’s not even exaggeration.) but intelligent enough to know what to say and what not to, and that made him the jewel of his species.

He met Abigail Roberts at the local bar when he was 21. Technically he just reached his 21, approximately 11 hours and 24 minutes ago, and that day was the first day he could legally consume alcohol. His friend Javier Escuella brought him to the local hipster bar. They served fresh kimchi - avocado taco platter and homebrew beer. Javier introduced his friend from hometown - Sadie Adler. She majored in Biology at the University of Chicago and she recently moved into the downtown to live with her girlfriend. Her girlfriend joined them after half an hour. She had long dark hair neatly put in a bun, not a single strand of hair broke the perfect symmetry of her round forehead. That gave her the air of gentleman of 30s and badass female detective of a 2000s show (broadcast, not cable) and made John wonder how such contrastive images were brought together in a single person. Her fierce blue eyes stared at him, and John made an awkward introduction of himself. It was surprising that they became close friends from that day. They had nothing in common, really. She was in her late 20s, a district attorney, an atheist, raised by lesbian mothers in San Francisco, and came out when she was 16, at her birthday party. She was everything that never in his wildest dreams had John dared to wish to be.

John did not have to tell her that he was gay.

Nevertheless, she was the first one he came out. It was a weird experience that voicing out an ambient truth that had remained unspoken throughout his life. That simple sentence, ‘one word’ resonated inside him, making his whole body shake. Abigail just listened to him, no flinching, no overly-proud-parents-like cheers with a bursting tear. What made her eyebrows rise (just a little bit) was the confession that he was not going to let out, but his stimulated nerves forced him to spill out just like one suffering extreme anxiety started to vomit. Her very first response was: ‘It can’t be.’

“It is.”

John gulped down his cold coffee to calm himself down. She opened her mouth to say something and ended up murmuring an abrupt apology that she did not mean to say it like that. John shrugged his shoulder saying ‘None taken’. He told her that he did know there were apps and places to fulfill specific ‘needs’, but he just did not want to. It seemed rather insignificant, and he wanted to be ‘sure’ before actually doing something. The whole idea in his words indirectly exhibited the deep-rooted Puritanism and Orthodox Christian Rigorism in Texan boy raised in a devout Christian family, but you cannot diagnose someone unless you are a psychiatrist or well-trained therapist specialized in this kind of issue. Abigail asked John whether he wanted to… ‘explore and experience’ things he had had a long time ago, in ‘fair and right’ society. John could not answer. He was curious, but would it be that... good? John had watched porn. Actors cried out in joy (or at least that's what was intended), panting and groaning, begging for ‘more’. What was 'more'? Yeah, when he touched himself it felt good. The sensation drove him to the edge and made him stroke harder, faster, and stronger. He hadn’t tried his hole - not a finger in it, no. - but it seemed equally pleased to be fucked, as much as to fuck. Is he prude? Maybe, but is it bad? He could not answer.

John downloaded a dating app the next day. As soon as he created an account, several messages popped up. He checked. Dick picture. Okay. This guy(HoTHolEWanTed) really got straight to the point. He was trying to maximize his utility by consuming the least resource(ex) time and energy to type, like, Hello.) to get physical satisfaction. What an economic entity he was. John tried to text something back, but what could he say? Nice dingdong? After a few minutes, the dick guy left, guess he figured out that John was not a commodity worth his price. John met more dick guys. One guy was actually 'abs' guy, with his face, and he had the decency to text him: ‘Hello handsome.’ John started to text with him, and it ended up him asking John to show his cock. He wanted to see ‘how useful his package was’ and said it would be the only way to get his 'invitation'. John gently declined his future invitation by turning off the app.

When John called Abigail, she sounded more than eager to help him out. Which was a bit depressing, despite her placid, gentle words, the enthusiastic undertone in her voice seemed to imply the whole thing was somewhat extraordinary. Not abnormal, unusual, inconceivable, but just, something else. You might want to meet this guy. He is my friend’s colleague, was a tennis player at UCLA, got good humor, such a sweet and smart man. You will really, really like him. Her last word echoed in his left ear when he hung up.

Siri announced ‘You got an appointment next Friday.’ when John updated his schedule. The guy’s name was Lyndon Monroe. He had dark brown hair and a thick, well-groomed beard. He had remarkable cheekbones and soft maroon eyes. Maybe hazle, it was hard to tell as his eyes got nearly shut due to the huge grin on his face in the picture Abigail sent him. John once read about ‘a genuine smile’ - smiling with your eyes, that's the true one. John texted him. He was no ‘dick guy.’ (Of course, he could not be.) He was gentle, at least his messages were. They were radiating careful and cheerful vibes. They arranged their schedules and made an appointment. Friday night, next week. Damn, the purest socialite in 18C would have had more dates than John had.

It was Thursday night, and the temperature rose slightly, making it chilly but not too cold. John wanted to take a walk. He could see the Big Dipper, those blurry teal blue dots blinking in the jet black sky. He walked down to 4th Avenue and headed to the bookstore. It was a bookstore specializing in secondhand Science Fiction and Fantasy books. Not a fancy vintage, antique bookstore for collectors or hipsters. Never had he been a book worm or an enthusiastic reader, however, John sometimes visited the bookstore ever since Mary-beth (His colleague) showed it to him. Mary-beth collected old sci-fi, fantasy books and she found some good old ‘Foundation Series’ published by avon t. series in perfect mint condition. He occasionally bought books there. He never read them. He just wanted to buy something cheap and mobile, with a long narrative in it, to convince himself that he had spent his time and money for meaningful, useful things. Moreover, browsing through books made him feel intellectually stimulated. Since he was not willing to spend time to learn anything, that was what he needed to alleviate guilt. So that was why he went to that name-was-not-that-important bookstore, and how he encountered him.

Too many personal pronounces to grasp what was going on. Let’s make it simple - John met Arthur that night at the bookstore. Arthur was already in the bookstore when John entered the store. He came to sell old books his friend gave him. Tilly Jackson - the owner - later told John that Arthur’s books were not worthy at all. Good books they were, but not sellable goods. Frankenstein, hardcover, penguin, printed in 1990. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, hardcover, harmony books, first edition, printed in 1980. Wide Sargasso Sea, softcover, Random House, printed in 2005, etc. Tilly was telling him that he couldn’t get paid more than a half-dollar per book, only for Frankenstein and Oxford Time Travel Series, and Arthur made half-muffled moans at it rubbing his jaw with his big right hand. John really should not have done that - out of professional courtesy as he was in Tilly’s bookstore - However, he could not help himself but stride toward him to ask to sell those books to him. Arthur looked puzzled, as much as Tilly was perplexed. Tilly barely knew John back then, and Arthur had never met him until he almost ran into him and made a bold bid.

John still remembered those bright blue eyes with the hint of green glimpsing at him, and the dark and gold spots scattered in those delicate irises. Arthur had freckles across his nose and cheeks which reminded him of cappuccino(Still don’t know why.) He shrugged and muttered ‘kay, fine. it’s a deal.’ John cleared his throat and asked his number, followed by the other’s slightly furrowed brows. John explained he had no cash, so he was going to transfer money with Apple pay. He nodded and gave John his number and name. Arthur Morgan. John paid 5 dollars per book. Arthur thanked John for such a generous price (Tilly winced at him) and John knew nothing about this kind of thing, never, ever tried that sort of action, but it was time to do something, take a step, and leap. (Even if he failed, he still got his number. So there was a second chance. No need to worry.)

John asked him out for a cup of coffee, stuttering. He bit his tongue when he pronounced Arthur’s name and made a funny sound. John wanted to kill himself. And Arthur smiled. It was the warmest thing he had ever seen that winter. He said yes.

That was exactly a year ago. 2 weeks later, after a few dates, John ‘made love with him’ for the first time in his life. Arthur guided him into his body, and damn, yes, it was great to feel someone he loved with his whole body. His member did enjoy the dark cavern of a gorgeous blonde, sorry, but not sorry. He cried ‘more’. Now he knew what was ‘more.’ They moved in together last June and John proposed him in October. You might wonder ‘Okay, happy ending. good, but what about ‘Every contact lives a trace part?’’ Hold on.

It turned out that Arthur had a short, but not brief career in acting. He used to be an actor back in the 2000s. He featured in several shows as a young detective 2, trooper 3, a marine in the background, etc. The only role that actually had name and line was the young rookie cop ‘Tom Clark.’ He got shot when he covered captain Grimshaw at a shootout. Luckily ambulance arrived in time and with paramedic ripping off his shirt showing beautifully toned abs and pecs covered in fake blood, the credit rolled up. Now John could get why he was so mesmerized when he first saw him. Tom Clark. His favorite dream man in his wet, wet dream. Well, the first was lieutenant Constantine, but the most frequently ‘invited’ one was Tom.

You see, every contact leaves a trace. It hunts you down and you cannot escape, no matter how far you go, how long it had been. Call it inevitable - like Greek tragedies - destiny. It’s not that scientific, but it is the truth of life, as I said before. Old but gold. John Marston can prove it with his story of how he met his husband, Arthur Morgan.

**Author's Note:**

> Love John Marston and Arthur Morgan in Modern days. Hope there are more of them. Oh and please don't take me wrong, I love crime shows. I still stan old Gill Grissom, such a dedicated scientist with adorkable geek vibe. I just wanted to say something about the general unnecessary sexualization of women (especially female victims) in the shows, which depicts sexual, physical, mental violence against women, with no respect for those victims of actual violence.


End file.
